


12/10

by blessedthrice



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, F/M, Mike Zacharias - Freeform, Nanaba - Freeform, PWP, attack on titan - Freeform, mike - Freeform, mikenana - Freeform, nanamike - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedthrice/pseuds/blessedthrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Mike,” the guy said, and she almost asked him if he thought his parents had a good sense of humor, but refrained in favor of drinking in his 11/10 waist. 11/10 thighs. 11/10 arms. He was tall but slim, fit and deliciously fuckable in a pair of tight blue jeans and a gray cotton blend shirt that smelled faintly of musk and cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12/10

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guttersharkk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersharkk/gifts).



> shameless pwp, for my bae guttersharkk who loves dancing almost as much as she loves mikenana

The club was too loud, or too crowded, or probably both. She had never liked it there, really, or maybe she was just in a bad mood. The pink lights from above flashed over the heart shape of her face, leaving pink imprints on her vision like flamingos in a documentary about Africa, or just about birds, or maybe it was just about flamingos but also sort of about other birds, or maybe it was about the shrimp the fucking flamingos ate ad astra ad nauseam, and really, who cared?

The guy who’d asked her out with him was too young for her. She’d figured that out when he’d picked her up in a fucking ferrari. She’d considered inventing some excuse not to go just so she wouldn’t have to be seen standing next to the thing--but, frankly, she wasn’t sure how likely he was to believe that she’d suddenly contracted malaria from bad chicken and needed to be quarantined immediately and probably forever. 

Worse than having a bad car, though, was being a bad conversationalist. Worse than being a bad conversationalist, a bad dancer. He was three for three, and she’d spent the better part of the hour and a half that they’d spent at Survey trying to decide if it was too late to text him “sorry, new phone” and leave on the sly. 

The song faded into a dancehall track she kind of liked, and she relished in the brief vacation from her dismal interactions with--god, what was his name again? Something very generic and wonderbread, she thought. Steve, or Michael, or Jim or worse--David. He’d gone to get her another drink, which she needed desperately because the cocaine he’d given her in the car was wearing off and she was finding it difficult not to roll her eyes every time he spoke to her. 

She closed them for a moment, combing her hand through her short, blonde shag as her hips moved in slow, rhythmic circles. She’d always loved to go out dancing, especially on her own. There was something addicting about the game, about being on the prowl. Finding new boys to kiss and fuck and forget to text back. She hadn’t been laid since her idiot ex had moved all his shit out four months ago. That was really why she’d agreed to come out with Steve-Michael-Jim-David. She was getting desperate, and antsy. 

“You know, I just got a brand new mattress. All the way from Italy,” was something he’d whispered earlier on, right into the cusp of her ear as he ground his hips into her ass. Yeah, I fucking bet you did, Wonderbread she’d thought, and she should have probably made a bee-line for the door right then but she hated to lose more than she hated to be annoyed and she’d resolved to get fucking laid before she left the house and she was going to, one way or another. 

The weight of a hand on her hip drew an exasperated breath from between her lips. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to let Florida Orange Juice see her in her underwear, but whatever, it was only one night and then she’d forget he ever existed. Maybe he’d surprise her with a massive shlong. 

She cupped his hand resignedly with hers, tightening the grip on her side and leading his hips forward until their bodies were flush, his stomach to her back. Or his stomach to her--shoulders? She didn’t remember him being all that tall, but hey, she’d had a few glasses of wine before he’d shown up. She ran her fingertips along his knuckles, surprised to find upon closer inspection that there were small tattoos there. Symbols, astrological ones, she thought. How had she missed those before? They were beautiful, an indication of something deeper and more interesting than she’d initially thought him capable of. A miracle, Scotty, we may have found some intelligent life down here.

His hips moved against her body with practiced ease--rhythmic and methodical and lulling. Her body synced to his almost instantly, a different animal from that petulant party-boy routine he’d pulled earlier. Well, some guys were growers not showers. Maybe he’d grown on her, like bread mold or a barnacle or athlete’s foot. She wasn’t in a position to be too critical, so instead she sank back into his touch, moving tantric and slow on the dancefloor. 

Her eyes fluttered as a warm hand slipped up under the white cotton of her shirt, an oversized tanktop she’d stolen from the idiot ex. The other hand had wrapped the long necklace she wore around a playful finger and tugged at it gently, exposing the back of her neck and placing warm, lush kisses against the skin there. She wondered if he’d brought that drink along. If she could just get a teensy bit drunker maybe she could actually kiss the guy, and then maybe he’d take her home to his Italian mattress and they could get it over and done with and she could move on, satiated, however briefly. Resigned, she pulled away from his surprisingly sturdy body, turning around in his arms to ask if he’d remembered it was a vodka sour, not a vodka sprite. 

To say she was surprised to find a stranger pressed against her was an understatement. The man before her was twice the size of any normal human being, probably. Like a circus freak or a supermodel or both. He wasn’t bad looking, either. In fact, even sober, she suspected he might be like an 8/10 or even a 9 in the right light. This club was the right light, and with a little bit a blow and a lot of vodka he was an easy 11. Wonderbread, Shmonderbread. 

“I’m Mike,” the guy said, and she almost asked him if he thought his parents had a good sense of humor, but refrained in favor of drinking in his 11/10 waist. 11/10 thighs. 11/10 arms. He was tall but slim, fit and deliciously fuckable in a pair of tight blue jeans and a gray cotton blend shirt that smelled faintly of musk and cigarettes. She wasn’t willing to blow it (figuratively), because jesus fuck she could use good dick in her life and if it was attached to something that beautiful she could be a sweetheart. She could be anything he wanted.

“Nan,” she replied, cupping long manicured nails over his ear. He smiled, the gesture flexing the muscles in his cheek against her hand. 

“Wanna get out of here?” He shouted. His voice was firm and dominant, deep and rasping as if he didn’t use it much. Nothing better than a gorgeous guy who wanted to fuck you and didn’t talk. 

Nan gave a perfunctory glance around the dancefloor for Steve-Michael-Jim-David, snorting derisively. 

“As long as you don’t drive me back to your place in a ferrari,” she shouted back, slipping her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket.

“Hope a Harley’s okay,” he said back, and she couldn’t think of anything smart to say to that so she let him grab her gently by the arm, leading her through the crowded club with ease. 

The Harley was pretty nice, it turned out. Slim, sleek and dark. Nice rims. She stumbled as she slid onto the back, embarrassed when a firm, tattooed hand caught her by the elbow and steadied her. She frowned, jamming the proffered helmet onto her head as gingerly as possible. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was too sloppy to take her clothes off. She’d never forgive herself. 

“I don’t live too far,” he said, and she might have paused to appreciate how soft and delicate his voice was except that he kicked down on the clutch right at that moment and sped out of the parking lot. She closed her eyes as he wove in and out of late night traffic, clinging tightly to his waist. He smelled even better now that they were alone--like leaves and dirt and fire smoke. She could imagine him doing something really Paul Bunyan-y, like chopping wood for the fuck of it or decorating a christmas tree and the idea spread warm and hot between her thighs. 

They took side streets, a maze of dim alleyways and narrow one ways. It was a strange way to see the city--it was always so bright and bursting with light and energy that it was hard to imagine it had another face, a serene and gentle face that made her stop to admire the craftsmanship of the brownstones, the twinkle of the traffic lights. She wasn’t sure how long they’d ridden for when the bike finally came to a stop, but it didn’t seem long enough. The childish part of her wanted to stay on, to ask him to take her somewhere far away. The reasonable part said she’d come here with a goal in mind.

They walked in silence up all five flights of stairs to his apartment. She wondered how often you could reasonably get laid living on the fifth floor--she lived on the third in her building and frankly it was a stretch. She almost audibly thanked fuck when he finally stopped in front of a door, plucking a ring of keys from his jeans pocket. 

The apartment he lead her into was neat, warm, and well-cared for. Everything looked comfortable and modern and relatively minimal, something that she could appreciate. She wondered what kind of job he must do, and thought it must be a pretty cushy one if he could afford to live in Manhattan in anything bigger than a broom closet. Still, the place didn’t make a big deal about itself and if _Mike_ stayed true to that assessment then they’d get along just fine. He might even make a halfway decent fuckbuddy, which was big of her to say because she did not consider herself much of a repeat offender.

Mike stopped walking suddenly, turning around to face her with an intent expression on his face. They were standing very close together in the middle of the living room, his hands resting like small boulders on her collar bones. 

“You’re really gorgeous,” he said quietly, as though he were merely stating a fact. Like the weather, or the date. Her cheeks flushed pink rather against her will, and she looked down at the floor so he wouldn’t notice, except he did notice obviously and made a soft ‘hum’ of approval before slipping her jacket gently from her shoulders. She didn’t protest when he tossed it carelessly onto the sofa, nor when a thick finger came beneath her chin, raising her mouth to his with practiced ease.

“This all okay with you?” He asked against her lips, his breath coming in hot, heavy pulses that fanned across her neck. She squirmed, pressing her hips against his. 

“Not my first rodeo, guy,” she replied, and closed the remaining gap between their mouths in one fell swoop. His lips tasted like tobacco and mint. She pressed hers hard against his, grabbing his fuller bottom one with her teeth as her hands dipped under the hem of his shirt. He responded with a firm knee between her thighs, spreading them open and yanking her forward, deepening the kiss. She rolled her hips as his body moved against her, each touch like a shock of electric pulse that settled in a warm pool between her legs. A contented sigh escaped from her into his mouth, and she allowed her tongue to be suckled between his teeth and lips as she raked her hands through the soft blonde strands of his hair, enjoying the way the shaved underneath felt against her palm. 

A soft moan of surprise puffed between her lips as her body was suddenly lifted by two strong hands that flushed hot against the bare skin of her abdomen. They were the sort of hands she searched for when she was alone, the sort of hands she imagined were playing at the strings of her panties as she rubbed desperate fingers against her own clit. They were thick like she imagined, dominant and demanding and in control. She wanted to feel them on her waist, pulling her up, or on her neck, pushing in. She wanted those hands to pin her wrists, to hold them until they were bruised, until she begged for it, crying out his name in the dark. She wanted Mike to tell her when and if she could breathe, to make her beg for her air--

Her back hit his bed with a soft thud, but she hardly had time to register that they’d moved into his room before he was on top of her, yanking her shirt over her head and tossing it aside the way he’d done with her jacket. His hands went immediately to her breasts, cupping them in his palms and then trailing across one and then the other with his mouth, careful to snag each pert nipple between his teeth as he moved. She mewled, arching back like a cat, giving him easy access to the space between her thighs. He didn’t miss the opportunity. He trailed hot kisses down the length of her stomach and then pressed his mouth there, against the denim of her jeans. She could feel his breath through the fabric and the moan that escaped her was so desperate and needy that she might have been embarrassed if it didn’t feel so fucking good. 

It didn’t go unnoticed. The soft vibration against her thighs told her that he was laughing, but she didn’t have the chance to tell him to fuck off because his hands were against her belly the next second, and he was undoing the zip of her jeans and then he was tossing those aside, too. She lay in silent anticipation, curious at the way he’d paused to just--look at her. As if she were a fucking Pollack or a Picasso or a Renoir or some shit.

Gingerly, he reached out one of those stunning hands, tracing his thumb from her clit down to the wetness of her pussy. She shivered, her hips bucking up as a whimper crawled from between her lips. 

“You’re so wet,” he said, as if he really appreciated it. He continued to rub her entrance softly, dipping his fingers beneath the lace of her panties every so often and then trailing across the top, teasing her. Breath left her in tight gasps, her hips bucking desperately against his hand. “You live for this don’t you, baby? You love to get fucked.”

She shuddered, pressing harder against his palm. He chuckled low and deep, his hands spreading her thighs wider apart as he slowly rolled her underwear from her hips, trailing his mouth from the soft hair on her pelvis, down her thighs and knees and then to her feet. He lapped gently at the sensitive pads of her toes before crawling back up to lie between her legs. He looked at her then, his green eyes blown out with lust and something else--something affectionate and almost like worship. 

“You smell gorgeous,” he said huskily, and then he nuzzled his nose against her wetness, before burying his face completely in her folds. The sound that escaped her was one she wasn’t sure she’d ever made before. Her hips lifted high off the bed, his hands coming immediately to grab at her ass, holding her against his mouth as he made gentle circles and laps with his tongue. She drifted away then, her head reeling and sound echoing in her ears as if she’d been sucked into a tunnel. Her whole body coiled and uncoiled, flexed and unflexed, writhing against his hands and his mouth and chanting soft moans like a song. She couldn’t string sentences together, couldn’t force her numb mouth to move. All she could muster was his name in short, desperate prayers. _Mike. Mike. Mike._

The blood rushed between her ears and between her legs, so close that every muscle in her body had gone taught with want.

“I’m going--to--come,” she gasped out, quivering and bucking up against his lips. 

The pressure left her abruptly and she let out a low, animal whine, slammed harshly back into reality. He had pulled back from her, her pre-come shimmering across his lips as he admired her. Gentle hands rubbed soothingly at her sides.

“I’d like to fuck you,” he said thoughtfully. She snarled, arching against off the bed. 

“Then why don’t you?” 

It sounded more aggressive than she’d meant it, but he seemed amused if nothing else, running a placating hand down her thigh to the back of her knee. 

“Be patient,” he commanded, his tone nothing but gentle.

He pulled back achingly slow, standing to remove his shirt over his head, and then to undo the button of his jeans. She watched, struggling not to finish herself as he slipped his boxers off around his ankles. He was a 12/10, she decided. And she was nearly sober. 

She eyed the rock-hard length of his cock, which lay flat and wet against his stomach, hungry. It was bigger than she’d expected. He knew it, too, she could tell by the way his lips turned up into a smirk. The confident way he crawled back onto the bed, nudging her knees apart with his hands.

He pressed the head of his cock like a kiss against the wetness of her pussy, trailing it from clit to entrance the way he’d done with his thumb before. She whimpered, arching, begging him with clutching hands for what she wanted. He seemed comfortable obliging. As he slipped his length inside of her, he placed a soft kiss against her forehead, stroking his fingers across her cheek when she cried out. 

They stayed that way for what felt like centuries, with her hips pulsing, her insides clenching and unclenching, her legs quivering with ecstasy. He was too big for her, too big for anyone, probably. She let her eyes close, soft pants and whines rolling off her tongue. 

When he finally began to move she let out a long moan, matched by a guttural hum from deep in his abdomen. He pressed fully inside of her and then pulled back, only to slip in again to the hilt. It was enough to drive her over the edge. She bucked her hips to meet each thrust, clutching hard to his strong back as they rolled together the way they’d done in the club, when they’d been dancing what felt like a millenia ago. As his thrusts became more uneven, more sporadic, he let out a cacophony of gorgeous, mind-numbing sounds that made her toes curl against the bed. She matched him moan for moan, her own sounds blending with his and her body lifting and clenching and wrapping desperately around his larger one until heat flooded her body and she came with one final chant of _Mike_ against the warm flesh of his shoulder. He gave two more short, deep thrusts before spilling inside of her with a gentle chant of her name, one that tickled her eardrum and settled warm and pleasant deep in her stomach.

They lay there a long time after, her body wrapped tenderly in his arms, with his cock still inside of her. She could feel the mixture of their fluids dripping like honey between her legs and it was strangely satisfying. Soothing, almost.

When they finally moved apart it was only to readjust, her slender body turned onto her stomach and his slightly draped across, tracing slow lazy circles and patterns over the flesh of her back. She thought she heard him light a cigarette, but she’d drifted too far away from the world to be absolutely sure. 

“I’d love to see you again,” he said after a while. She could tell by his tone that he was offering genuinely, that he wouldn’t be bothered if it wasn’t what she wanted. She ‘hum’d into his pillow, shifting beneath his weight. 

“Maybe you could take me out dancing,” she replied softly. They settled into a comfortable silence after that, the only sound the gentle whisper of their synchronized breathing.


End file.
